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Entry #326

Eager Fingers

I'm in the mood to write a ton of shit, for better or worse, its like a midnight mass where People cuss the crass material I write, while I nonchalently cut the grass, outside, blissfully unaware of the warzone, hosted by four gay porn Forsworn soldiers who have declared a proclamation of... crackled muffled hiss. That fucking hiss, pisses me right off, and the dust on my screen needs cleaning, but maybe the desecration heeds meaning, like the fumes and the crumbs are affecting my breathing. Window Wipers please Squire! At least acquire them first for hire, Nietz! I can't, other distractions affect me, my headphones have gone through a hole in my towel. Srly?!?! What are the odds? Bad Luck, living in cloud cuckoo like a cuckold that has to fuck you for the amusement of a woman. C'mon woman! Give me a handjob until the semen in my balls makes my dick land blobs. While some of the fallout lands in a plant pot, now I'm sensitive so get your hands off. No! I don't mean get your hands off in that sense of the word. All these double-meanings cause nothing but troubled evenings.. You gots to be politically correct Nietz! There is no such thing as free speech! Speech to their Own I say. If you feel like saying something, but you have to stop yourself from saying it, you are self-harming, its a form of repression, which then leads to Deep-Rooted Pression, otherwise known as depression in the Nietz Law School of Thought. School of thought my arse, school didn't do anything for me except bully me to the point where people don't fully understand me. I just sit and rock like Rainman, while outside it rains man, but luckily the main man from Maine makes me a lettuce and ham sandwich, while Stickman finds a cure for my brain dam. Blocking thoughts from getting out, unlocking locks, now I'm rocking boats on the jettys down by the West Country. 8,01pm, Friday, the first day I've felt this hungry to write.. never mind thirsty. I'd like to think that my worst days are behind me, trying to catch up, and glass me with a ketchup bottle. I hate red sauce, brown sauce, mayonnaise, Patty Mayonnaise, salad cream, and jizz condiments. I haven't been this disturbed since my eyes were scarred for life by all the shocking hentai in Jack's flash movie. My Dog! YouDontHaveADogNietz.com... Iknowthatyoufool.org. Where were we? Oh yes I remember, trying to pick up the pieces of a broken catchup bottle. Nietz is alive, but for how long? And how wrong would it be for me to maintain these rhymes mid-blog? I'm sick of rhyming and writing stories about thyme machines that can't even get off the fucking floor without dying. I'm still rhyming, GRR.com, its like trying to shake off a bug, where the fuck is the vaccination? where is my RadAway? Remember when I Haddaway with words. Baby Don't Hurt Me.. No Moe Syzlak. Who lacks the social skils to woo Marge into bed, even though he endlessly tries. I need an energy boost, some fries, a story about a lovable character who dies...... After slaughtering 50...... Mosquitos that have somehow got on my Chiquitos pizza and melted into the cheese, then expired like my father's Visa.. who ironically has also expired. I want to become an Expat and sit cross-legged doing yoga with Yoda while watching all the Friday the 13th films with the lights out. Now I can take a breather again instead of rolling up this reefer that Aretha Franklin got from Benjamin late one summer evening. Odd I know, like the picture of a toad on Jack's pro...... File. Sorry I had to split that word in two, I didn't mean to burden you like Jack Burton losing his truck in Big Trouble in Little China 2. "Ha! You're lying Nietz! There wasn't even a Big Trouble in Little China 2! You're saying there was a sequel so you could rhyme the line!!" Damn, rumbled. Humbled, you could say I managed to tumble over my own ego and land in a crumpled heap on the floor next to Rumpled Foreskin. Wrinkled Ballbags? And that's just Madonna's face. Crinkled like a crinkle cut chip. The Old Hag.. sounds like an Irish bar. I risk not seeing far out of my iris if I step inside that Irish bar and drink straight whiskey from the start.. of the proceedings, then get dissed by Irish onlookers for my Receeding Airline. Then I go in Wutherspoons and drink Reece's pussy juices with a spoon, while an old man croons his way through a jazzy tune. And I'm sat in that bar, drunk, reading 50 Shades of Shit, its the fourth novel in the series, when Christian introduces a taboo scat scene. What kind of skinz name is Christian Grey? Let's make the book much more shocking by calling him Jesus Christ Ian Grey. It features an S&M scene of him being nailed to a cross. People are easily shocked. I remember when I went to the cinema to see Passion of the Christ and everybody was going "oohh! ffwwoo!" Wincing and recoiling in horror at the bloody torture. It could have been a lot worse though, he could have had an arrow in the knee. Or lost a tennis match against Na Li, or been stung by the bee of Muhammed Ali. That was his alias not his real name, Cassius Clay pigeon shooting like semen from a horse's cock... Anyways, as life goes on, at 29, I feel almost over the hill, its taken 29 years to climb it... I just hope that whatever is at the other side of that hill is not anticlimatic like anti-climbing paint or static shocks that rock my world for the worse... There has to be good things on the horizon surely Bob.. Who's Bob? its not my job to find out who Bob is... Its Rob's job to investigate the crime scene and use his initiative to solve the case of the murdered livestock - Case Ventura. What about Jesse Adventurer who sent me an advent calendar last Christmas, he didn't.. I just invented that... What about buying an advert calendar which constantly round the clock, tries to sell you a bunch of stuff you don't want... The advert calendar, live ad banners scrolling across the bottom of your living room wall... trying every trick in the book to catch your eye, and every trick out of the book too... Luckily you are sat there wearing shades, you can't see the advert calendar, great! But you also can't see full stop... Or exclamation marks and commas... Comma Comma Comma Comma Comma Chameleon I hyphen-this, I hyphen-thaaaaahahahatt! Comma Comma Comma Comma Comma Chameleon, I deed the lotto yesterday and won a meelion... Better than winning a sea lion, you'd have seen Ryan mad if he had won a sea lion... Or seal ion's. Or a ticket to see Leona Lewis once in concert... In fact, fuck it! I don't want a prize, take this million pounds back to the vault, I'm happy being broke, I don't want fame to change me... I can put my own clothes on thank you very much... I'd rather sit in an empty room in a rocking chair cackling like an old grey haired woman who owns 60 cats... Then mutter 'where did it all go wrong?' then cackle some more... Then piss in my knickers... Then fake an elaborate heart attack... Its fun being an old person! Until the inevitable end. I just hope its quick and I don't have to linger like a strange odour that's so dour, growing more sour by the hour. Its me!!

... I'd best go take a shower. No I wont I'll stink like a stick-thin insect sat on a pile of shit. Then I'll stand up and launch into a violent fit and swallow a vial of piss. You've never read anything as vile as this. But you have no choice but to smile at this and say, 'that Nietz he a damn lil' scamp!' He'll tear you open like Monica van Campen, he'll raise your spirits just so he can dampen your mood... They say he has a screw loose.. in the side of his chair. But he also has another screw loose.. in the side of his head. It fell out last night by the side of his bed and he hasn't woken up yet. So how the hell is he writing this blog?!?!?! From beyond the grave?!?!?!? Nope. From before the grave?!?!?! Yep. Well that explains a lot, yet explains nothing at all.. in fact the explanation is anything but plain as he lies lain here in bed.. slain by Kurt Cobain's half-brother... Didn't expect that one, don't worry I didn't, my thoughts surprise even me... Are you hungry to read more? SLURPrise and shine while I give you a black eye and you can't see anything like a mafia murder witness, as you are too scared witless to even testify against that testi fiend who has bigger testes than Mrs. Ji-Anne Testicle. She sounds like a fucked up, sorry excuse for a lady, she's into transformation like some kind of Trance Formation of America, and Cathy O Brien who was hunted down like a dog by Penis Cheney and Bush Senior. The Most Dangerous Game, the best way to anger a dame that's been kidnapped and mind altered by altars and priests and other people of peace. The world is a messed up place, but you got to love human be-inn's and their cute likkle mannerisms!! Its all about the nuts manz, the nuts, its the reason we're all nuts in the first place! The Groin Loins dictate everything manz! Semen aches manz! Make us does crazzie thingies manz! We are ruled by the Groin Loins, if the Groin Loins say murder, we will. Its why the Fingaz are so Eagerz manz. Whatz with all the Z's Nietz? "You tell me conscience, you fell asleep." We could sit here all day long and knock words out like 16 consecutive orgasms over 15, 28-year-old secretaries... The office woman said to me, "can you keep a secret..... ary." And I said, "yeah, just treat her well." Or I could treat her mean to keep her keen, like keeping her door key so she couldn't get in the house late one night and she's stuck outside freezing to death in the snow... But noone would ever know... Well until the snow melts, then the invisible suddenly becomes the visible. "But the door was unlocked I protested!!" Its the perfect moyder. Who would know? Who could prove that the door was or wasn't unlocked? It was her fault she didn't walk to another house to get comfort, 'bit difficult in platform heels.. Its her fault, she could have used them to break a window, again, failing to use her initiative.

None of the previous events were true. No platform heel women were harmed during the making of this blog... In fact my reputation was more harmed talking about it.

2012-09-17 08:27:43

Major G is a Minor D, a Minor Dwarf trapped down a mine. When he's on stage, they all say he mimes, but who gives a damn when he spits out his rhymes.. Coz he's Major G, and people have paid to be here, stood around the stage, drinking a crate of beer. Coz he's Major G, and if there's something that we'd hate to be, it's haters of this cool guy Major G. The only known rapper to upstage a beat. Coz he's Major G, he's a rapper that lives inside me. He's very very small, Two inches and three, when he needs to take a pee he's gotta leap up on the seat. Coz he's Major G, he's amazing see, ain't nobody in the world hate on Major G, coz it's plain to see that he's majorly, the greatest damn rapper that's played to these, large crowds who gather and slaver like beasts over Major G. Coz he's Major G, he's all the rage and he's slain all competition in this game. Coz he's Major G.

2012-09-17 20:00:52

I always have a bash reading your trash. I want to jump into the dumpster into which all your words are deposited. One man's trash is another man's treasure, and your trash is a particularly fine pleasure.

Do you yam? Or plan to eat second hand scrambled egg breakfasts, really slowly... In a manner befitting a seductress? Is it appropriate for me to be shitting or hitting or lashing out against all adversaries on the anniversary of Anne's birthday? Nobody knows Anne, its hard to picture such a screen queen in my mind, but she's there all right, trying to nudge out all the depraved shit that people rave about. Horror like The Raven, being Edgar Allen's sex slave, fucked like a slab of bacon. But not Kevin's Bacon as he makes it too greasy and it slides down your gullet like an out-of-control ski-jumper. Its the morning and we're feeling the effects of sleeplessness and conscious unconsciousness. This back-to-front regime can't be maintained by ten men trained to strap me to a moving train on a rainy day. I've missed not being in the Hot Seat, we've been out of operation too long, maybe the old age is catching up, the fat shit slumps into a bigger lump of lard, and needs some kind of kick to jumpstart his heart into the extra gears we know it can tick. At the moment its just a trickle like peeing little microscopic peas and pips.

The problem is some of this shit is so long, those dumpsters might get put in the back of the truck's mincing machine... I don't like to mince my word, but the truck does.